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Cranford
·
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell
31
She
was
conscious
of
her
sister’s
presence,
though
not,
I
think,
of
ours.
We
stood
a
little
behind
the
curtain:
Miss
Jessie
knelt
with
her
face
near
her
sister’s,
in
order
to
catch
the
last
soft
awful
whispers.
“Oh,
Jessie!
Jessie!
How
selfish
I
have
been!
God
forgive
me
for
letting
you
sacrifice
yourself
for
me
as
you
did!
I
have
so
loved
you—
and
yet
I
have
thought
only
of
myself.
God
forgive
me!”
“Hush,
love!
hush!”
said
Miss
Jessie,
sobbing.
“And
my
father,
my
dear,
dear
father!
I
will
not
complain
now,
if
God
will
give
me
strength
to
be
patient.
But,
oh,
Jessie!
tell
my
father
how
I
longed
and
yearned
to
see
him
at
last,
and
to
ask
his
forgiveness.
He
can
never
know
now
how
I
loved
him—
oh!
if
I
might
but
tell
him,
before
I
die!
What
a
life
of
sorrow
his
has
been,
and
I
have
done
so
little
to
cheer
him!”
A
light
came
into
Miss
Jessie’s
face.
“Would
it
comfort
you,
dearest,
to
think
that
he
does
know?—
would
it
comfort
you,
love,
to
know
that
his
cares,
his
sorrows”—
Her
voice
quivered,
but
she
steadied
it
into
calmness—
“Mary!
he
has
gone
before
you
to
the
place
where
the
weary
are
at
rest.
He
knows
now
how
you
loved
him.”
A
strange
look,
which
was
not
distress,
came
over
Miss
Brown’s
face.
She
did
not
speak
for
some
time,
but
then
we
saw
her
lips
form
the
words,
rather
than
heard
the
sound—
“Father,
mother,
Harry,
Archy;”—
then,
as
if
it
were
a
new
idea
throwing
a
filmy
shadow
over
her
darkened
mind—
“But
you
will
be
alone,
Jessie!”
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